Page 113 of Make You Mine

“I think you dropped something, wifey.”

In his hands, though I can’t see well, there’s a piece of distinctive white fabric. Dangling from his finger as he swings it back and forth.

Wait…Does he not know I’m here? Was his face on mine a mere coincidence?

He has to know after the shriek I almost let out when I saw him, and the slight bump of my head against the metal.

“God, the smell of your arousal is making me even harder.”

I gnaw at my lip, ignoring the sensation running through my body implied by his words.

My panties. They’re the damn panties I disposed of on the way here.

“I can smell you from miles away,” he says, remaining rooted by my side. “Especially now that you’re not wearing any panties. I’ve got your scent memorized, my wife.” He sighs. “God, you smell so sweet. I bet you taste even sweeter.”

He grips the panties and stares in my direction again.

I hold my breath, pressing a hand to my mouth.

Squinting my eyes shut, I pray. Please, God, don’t let him stab me with that knife. Please make him miss.

Soon, a sturdy object pushes its way between my legs through the black fabric I’m covered with. I open my mouth to scream—and no sound comes out. Whatever he pushed against me isn’t hurting me; there’s no sharp end to it. It’s round and hard.

He drags it up, and it presses my skirt to my folds, the friction giving me both pain and pleasure.

A whimper slips away.

Fuck.

Now he knows he’s found me.

“There you are, my wife.”

He slides the object up and down along that same spot, causing the bottom of my skirt to eventually lift.

I should not do this. But all I can think about is what’s bubbling up inside me. My yearning sex. The rush of this situation. Being locked in this way by him.

With both hands, I lift my skirt higher. The combination of the fabric that I’m hiding underneath and the object against my bare pussy causes a soft friction that makes me thrust myself forward.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks.

This time, he rubs the round tip in a well-calculated circle, mimicking a thumb, pressing against my clit.

He’s aware of what he’s doing, what game he’s playing.

My moans are undeniable now. My body arches forward, speaking with actions and asking for more.

“Use your words, my wife,” Devon demands. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

I don’t speak, letting him bubble up with frustration as I keep grinding myself against the fabric and the round tip of the object he’s teasing me with.

A rip grabs all my attention and I freeze. A slash through the fabric first, then a large hand pulling it apart, revealing half of my body to the cold air.

To hell with the charity event decorations. This place will need a serious touch-up before tomorrow.

He rips the rest of the fabric in a straight line, and I’m face-to-face with the tall, dangerous, stranger with the neon mask who’s been taunting me for weeks. Pressing the blade of the knife to my jugular, forcing the fabric of my choker tighter into my skin.

He’s not putting enough force to cut me—it’s a warning. Don’t move. Don’t slip away.